After The War
by MetalWolfMelody
Summary: The war is over, and Ghost isn't Ghost anymore- he's just Simon Riley, a minimum wage employee who can't seem to hold a job, or forget the thrill of battle. He was never a people person, and children weren't his specialty. When he's asked to speak at a nearby high school as a veteran of the war, what could he possibly say to make them understand what war is all about?


**This is a one-shot, an 'after the war' AU which involves Ghost surviving, and transitioning to society as a civilian.**

Simon spit on the envelope, disdain for the included message running hot in his veins. There was no use in setting it aside, or throwing it in the waste bin. They would come for him again and again, as they always did, as relentlessly as hounds. He would swear that they were more relentless than the most dogged soldiers, and that there was no use in trying to outrun them, even in this time of peace.

The recently established Veteran Affairs of Recent Wars was persistent if nothing else. To deal with the massive influx of veterans upon the end of the war, governments across the globe established bureaus to deal with these numbers, to provide the men and women that would have died for their countries with some support, at the least.

Of course, they had another agenda tucked away. The textbooks were still being written, the stories hadn't been published quite yet. There were a million accounts of war that had yet to be set free, now that the bloodshed had ceased, and those who had sacrificed all had been put to their final rest. To deter such horrors from occurring again, veterans of warfare, especially special operations types, were being called to serve their country once more- to teach children and adults alike that warfare was indeed a bloody business.

This was the third letter that Simon had dealt with in the past two months. He hadn't the faintest idea of how they had gotten his address, or why in the world that he of all people was being delegated this responsibility. And each time that he called the assistance line at the bottom of the invitation, he was pestered by hours of idle music, a constant promise that someone would soon be there to help him. Five calls, and he had yet to hear a human voice that would listen to his complaints.

A high school two towns over surely had other veterans, other men that would be more eager to speak to an assembly than he. Churchill High School had apparently been eagerly anticipating an assembly from him for the better part of three months, but each time Simon received the invitation, he had cursed it and cast it aside. He wanted nothing to do with these new 'peaceful world' standards.

Suburbia was no place for a dog like himself, and everything inside of him knew it. There was not a bone in Simon's body that failed to ache for combat, for the release that he would feel running alongside his comrades for just one more time, one more mission. An honorable discharge for injuries sustained in combat, that wasn't the last word that Simon Riley wanted to have on this world. But it was the best that he was going to get, sworn to secrecy, sworn to be silent, sworn to slink away quietly now that he had served his use.

For Simon, there was no peace in monotony. Waking up, brewing a cup of Joe, driving out to a minimum wage job that changed every few weeks. The same clothes, the same streets, the same people that walked to and from the same dreary shops that formed a mechanical prison or routine. Simon knew that he was a weapon, for that was all he had ever been trained to be. Without use he was becoming dull, wandering without a purpose, which in short, meant that he had been rendered utterly useless.

Unfortunately, Simon was too well trained, too much of a hard-ass to pack it in. He wasn't depressed; he didn't have PTSD, and was a relative stranger to anxiety. No therapist had broken down the solid barricade that he had placed around his mind, and no stranger had been able to crack open the hardened shell that surrounded his heart. There was no professional that had given him a name for the storm going on in his head. But Simon knew- it was merely the fact that he was bored. He may have hated war, but every inch of him thirsted for warfare.

Now he here he was- a retired hound still hungry for blood, being told by a reluctant master that he was to tell tales of horror and grandeur to mere children. He was to tell them about strength and bravery and courage, to tell them that he was the image of those traits. He was to fill their minds with the propaganda of this new age, that war was the greatest sin, the gravest affliction that could befall mankind,

As Simon stared at the letter again, he wondered what he could possibly tell a room of wide-eyed children hungry for stories of war. Would he tell them what it felt like to shove a knife into a living body and feel the blood pulse warm over his hands? Or would he tell them just how hot lead burned when it stung against his exposed skin? Maybe he would tell them about the adrenaline that pounded like thunder in his veins while he gunned down hordes of men in the dead of night,

But once more Simon reminded himself that he was nothing more than a veteran now, and that sooner or later, what he had done would be declassified. His glory would fade, and so would the stories in time. These boys and girls, young men and women, really, would be busy with their schoolwork and their phones and their friends. There was no chance that they would stare at him and consume his every word with desperate insatiability. They were the children of the war, they of all people needed no reminder what it was like to grow and live in a world of fear and terror. So why he was being asked to speak was beyond his comprehension, but he could do nothing but applaud the persistence of the suits that decided that he would be tasked with such an unpleasantry.

With a sigh tainted with unbelievable regret, Simon looked at the number for the school, which he was supposed to call to RSVP his speaking time. For a moment he hesitated, between that number and the number for the same old help line. If anything, this would be a break from the cast-iron routine that he had forced himself into, a chance to go out and do something new, to see the world and do his duty once more. Maybe by speaking he could save one of those boys from the agony of holding the hand of a dear friend as he draws his final breath. Maybe he could convince one of the future bureaucrats to lay down his hunger for war, to set aside those missiles and reach for pens in the hope of a resolution.

It was plain to Simon that his heart and mind were made up, as much as he didn't want to admit it. So with one final sigh he grabbed the phone off his hip and dialed the number, trying to suck up his ill feelings for the sake of the underpaid secretary was going to answer the phone.

The day came quicker that Simon had ever wanted, and although the soldier was as keen as could be, the obligation snuck up on him quicker than anything else he could remember. It seemed like just yesterday that he had caved, called up the school, and talked to the sweet woman on the phone who was as happy as could be to set up his talk. He was told that the students would be more than thrilled to hear from a veteran who had been in the Special Forces, and that it would be a huge step for their school's war prevention campaign.

There was nothing that Simon could do except dig through the closet, hunting for the uniform that he hadn't worn in so long with a heavy heart. No formal dress blues were stored away, carefully pressed for a formal event, tucked in the depths of his closet. Just his BDU's stashed in a box beneath old shoes, nothing more, nothing beautiful or fancy. As Simon carefully considered the event that he was going to be attending, he realized that a more formal uniform would be more appropriate, and it was unfortunate that he could not supply one.

As he unfolded the worn fabric, carefully running a thumb over the patches on the sleeves, Simon couldn't help but give a bitter smile, noting the rips in the seams and the faint stains that had never quite washed out. By the time he was discharged, he had no uniforms that were fully intact or worthy for a true inspection, nothing that a superior officer would have approved of. But that was war: it was dirty, gritty, and less than ranks of men looking sharp. It was ragged breathing, torn uniforms, sweat and grime and fear, all of it reflected in the eyes of young boys. Simon sniffed in satisfaction, perhaps relief, that this uniform was his only choice. Maybe it would highlight the lack of honor that warfare dragged behind itself, and maybe a few of those kids would notice the bloodstains that mixed in among the camouflage, and they would stop and wonder.

Simon reached into the box once more, prepared to pull out a plain green tee, or perhaps an old pair of regulation socks. Instead, his fingers brushed over fabric that was just as well worn, if not more so, than the uniform. He didn't even need to look before he pulled it from behind the cardboard barrier, knowing that a million breaths had come and gone through that fabric, a thousand screams, just as many orders barked into the howling wind. A balaclava that had served as his signature visage, an article of clothing that had acted as the world to him, lying prone in a box at the back of his closet.

Looking at the cloth in his hands now, Simon wondered if perhaps it was for the best. This grinning skull, apathetic and cruel, showed who he had been, what war had made him out to be. Perhaps it showed what wished he could still be. Whatever the case was, Simon felt a burning growing in his eyes. It felt as though he was staring at a piece of his own heart laid out to the open air, dripping blood over the sides of his hands, all of his pain and memories condensed into cotton and polyester.

All it took to snap him back to reality was a deep breath, and no more than that for Simon to place the balaclava back into the box and not look back. It was with a bitter resolve that he muttered his purpose to himself. He wasn't playing a game of dress up to bring him back to the field, bring him back to the glory days when he felt he was alive. He was going to dress smartly in this uniform, all for the sake of teaching a few kids about the horrors of war. There was nothing glamorous about this task, there was no physical reward, and there was nothing that he would gain from a day off work with a bunch of kids.

But the day came, all too quickly, all too fierce. The day itself was nothing outstanding, a clear blue sky accented by a brilliant sun in the dead of winter. Simon wrapped the weathered coat around his body and slipped out from behind the wheel of his car. He was parked in the lot of a modest sized public school, a mere hour and a half drive from his home. Simon hunted in his pockets for the notecards he had nestled there that morning, a contingency plan in the case that he somehow forgot the words he had so carefully rehearsed in his mind.

A few years ago, he reflected, he would have outright refused this invitation, no matter how many times it was delivered to his door. He would have cursed the kids, cursed the men, and cursed all of those that wanted him to share the secrets and the tragedy of war. Yet, something inside of him had softened enough that he had consented to this short speech on this chilly winter morning. In fact, he had gone so far as to rehearse a small speech, a fluid and seamless presentation, a summary of who he was and what he had gone through. That was all that these high schoolers could warrant from him, and it was all they were going to get.

As he walked into the front office of the school, the woman sitting at the desk smiled warmly, nearly cooing when she first saw him. With a head of auburn hair, the slightly overweight, middle aged woman was just as Simon had expected her.

"Welcome, Mr. Riley, to Churchill High! It's a pleasure to have you here" she exclaimed, hunting fervently to find him a pen for his visitors badge. "The children will be filing in for the assembly as we speak, and your escort is on the way. I believe you'll love the presentation we have together. Students from our Student Government Association have refreshments set aside for you, and the arts classes have each prepared something special. Oh, perhaps I shouldn't spoil this all for you! Here, I'm sorry, here's the pen I was looking for" she finished, handing him a blue pen with flushed cheeks.

Simon tried his best to smile, although he feared it was more similar to a grimace. As he scrawled his name on the visitors badge, he felt a stinging in his gut, the same feeling that he got before he was about to make a terrible mistake. Over the phone, he hadn't been informed that there would be any sort of presentation outside of a few minutes of himself speaking. To find that the entire student body was somehow prepared for this was disconcerting, to say the least.

True to the word of the secretary, just as he was placing the badge on his leg, a pair of well-dressed students entered the office, a young man and woman with smiles on their faces. They both stuck out their hands, and Simon stifled a sigh, reaching out to shake them.

"Morning, you two. The name's Riley. I heard that you'll be the ones showing me around today" he said, trying to give a half smile. The smile strained his face once more, and he swallowed back the ill feelings that were suddenly overwhelming him. These two kids seemed so eager to meet him, and to introduce themselves, revering him as something mightier as a man as they did so. The boy stepped forward once the greetings had concluded, and extended an open arm towards the hallway.

"The presentation will be starting in just a few minutes, sir. We have your place prepared on the stage of the auditorium. As I'm sure you've been informed, we plan on keeping it as brief as possible for you, while giving the students an ample opportunity to express their gratitude to you. The assembly will begin with a presentation of the national anthem by the choir, and then a musical piece by the school's symphonic band. A few words from the senior class president and our principal will conclude the student's portion of this assembly, and you will be welcomed to the podium. You may speak as long as you desire, and as soon as you are done, I will escort you back to the library where we have prepared assorted refreshments for you. If at any time you have any questions, I, or any other member of the Student Government Association will be more than happy to help you, sir" he rattled off eagerly, his eyes wide, as though he were hunting for some sort of recognition.

In the meantime, Simon was just trying to push down the sensation that the world was rocking around him. Upon signing up for this event, he hadn't been informed of the apparent extravagance that would accompany a simple presentation. But now it was clear that this school was just as eager as it was made out to be in that invitation.

"Very well" he sighed, giving in to his inevitable fate. It was too late to dodge the bullet now. The boy beamed even wider, if it was possible, and the young woman rushed to hold the door for him. Simon followed his escort with a final nod to the secretary, and was led down a plain and modest hallway towards a set of double doors.

There was a hushed chatter coming from inside those doors, and it was unmistakable to Simon's ears. A few hundred kids, all whispering to one another in anticipation, an explosive thundercloud ready to burst at the slightest opportunity. But Simon had steeled himself for the shock by now, resigned to his most unpleasant fate.

 _If I can kill a few hundred men in the course of a month, I can talk to some kids for the afternoon. This isn't war. Pull yourself together, Simon_ he cursed silently inside of his mind, and followed his guide in through the doors. The sight in front of him was nothing outside of the expected. The usual school auditorium, complete with students from wall to wall, all sitting and chatting with just enough reserve to keep themselves under control.

The stag was lit with bright white lights, a massive poster as a backdrop, reading "Thank You!" in a rainbow of colors to accent the morning. A row of chairs was set up behind a podium, three of the four already occupied. The empty chair on the end, Simon knew all too well, was reserved for him. The boy quickly showed him backstage, and motioned towards the chair that may as well have been a thousand yards away. Blinding lights danced just beyond the wings where Simon stood, and suddenly, there in his old uniform in the dark, Simon felt incredibly vulnerable. He paused, but knew that he couldn't wait forever. He had committed himself to this long ago, and nothing here was a surprise, forgive the zeal of the students. So he swallowed, and strode forward with purpose, his boots hitting the stage smartly as he made his way towards his seat.

Silence fell over the auditorium almost instantly, and hundreds of heads swiveled Simon's way. He did nothing except grit his teeth and finish the march to his seat, watching as the three persons occupying the other seats rose to greet him.

Forcing a smile, Simon shook the hands of a woman, and two young girls. A roar of applause filled the space, but Simon couldn't quite see the faces of those that lay beyond the edge of the stage, those theater lights blinding him completely. Once the formalities were complete, and the applause had died down, the gentle hum of a choir began, and the well-known national anthem began, its sweet melody filling the theater. Simon stood rigid, hearing the rehearsed tune carry gently to the ears of all the students.

For a moment, Simon cursed the nation that had led him to war, that had led the world to destruction. The same nation and men that had decided he had served his time, that he was no longer of any use to them. Nothing more than the scraps and the leftovers, to be a teacher when they called for him, a minimum wage, blue collar dog. Yet here were children, enthralled when they saw his uniform, praising all that he had done.

This thought had carried him through many nights before this morning, but this was a less than forgiving time for the consideration to surface. But it was over soon enough, and Simon was able to take a seat, allowing the performance of a musical peace to pass, not paying attention, but rehearsing the words that he had already gone over a thousand times in his mind.

The speeches from the principle and senior class president went much the same. The words 'honor' and 'courage' surfaced in the background, but Simon just sat as stoically as he could, eyes focused on nothing. He tried desperately to convince himself that the next few minutes would pass quickly, that he would speak with ease, and possibly leave these kids with something valuable. But Simon was no fool- he was just the muscle. He wasn't the poet (for that had always been Archer) and he wasn't a diplomat. The chance that he would make his words sound profound or full of wisdom was slim to none.

Before he knew it, the principle was stepping away from the podium, and another round of applause brought Simon back into the reality that he had been submerged in. This was the time, the five minutes or so that he had been dreading for the better part of a month. But he faced it as he did any other potential threat- with grit teeth, a calm face, and fire burning in his brain.

When he got to the podium, he adjusted the microphone slightly, clearing his throat as he waited for the applause to fade. Just a few moments later, it was silent once more, and children eagerly awaited some kind of wisdom, however unwarranted that hope may have been.

"So, like you all know, my name is Simon Riley. My military background may be what most strongly defines me, and is why I'm here today, but I figured I'd spare you some boredom and abstain from spewing numbers, years, and dates of service. The most that I'm guessing you would want to know is about what I did. I'm a special forces veteran, serving in the most recent global conflict you can all remember. And now, I'm the guy you call on when you want a pizza delivered to your door in less than twenty minutes" he opened. Although his tone had been serious, as it always was when he spoke, he had hoped that the introduction would at least lighten the mood, ease the anticipation that was as thick as mud each time he breathed. A few chuckles later, and another deep breath, Simon realized that his initial goal was accomplished. Pulling a half smile onto his face, however forced it was, he continued in the same monotone.

"I was asked to come here today to tell you about war, and to tell you about my service. I was planning to go on about courage, and strength, maybe tell a few stories from boot camp that would make you cringe and laugh. But I know better, I know that you all want stories about the war. You want me to tell you exactly what I felt as I lived the movies and the books that you've read, or talk about the terror that you lived through, but now laugh about. I will not humor your ears with those stories, the ones that I know you want to hear. You have no need for them. If you really wish to hear a story like that, wish with all your heart, find a book to tell you just as well.

"Today, I'll tell you about my friends. I know that you're all thinking that you know all there is to know about friends. You all have some, girls and boys, faithful or not. But more so than strength, more so than courage, more so that glory, friendship is the most important thing that you can ever possess. The loyalty, the faith, all of these things that come with a true and honest friendship, will carry you through your darkest hour. To have a complete trust in a soul that is not your own, an utter confidence that they will do just as well for you as you could do for yourself, that is an value that so many overlook."

Simon paused there, staring out once more into the blindingly white sea of sound. His lips were burning, and his ears were hot. The murmuring of the children was obvious, as though they didn't understand what he was saying, and a fog of disappointment was slowly rising from the crowd. In a way, this was exactly what Simon had expected. They had wanted exactly as he had anticipated- a story chalk full of the supposed glory of war, of heroism, of adventure and might. But just as warfare had none of those things, his words did not contain their expectations. With a short breath, Simon continued, slightly uncomfortable, but more convicted as he went.

"Without my good friends, my comrades, I would not be here today. This speaks true for both combat, and for peacetime. When I was young, I was dumb, just like any other kid. If I hadn't had friends watching for me, people I could trust with my life, I wouldn't have even had the chance to serve as I did. And once I began to serve, the friendships I formed, those bonds unbreakable, became important in a new way.

"There's no time that you have to doubt those beside you when you're under fire. Whether the fire is from a mutual enemy in a civilian setting, or if the fire is a hail of bullets coming from enemy territory, a friend will be the one that you will turn to. I'm sure you all have someone in your mind right now, someone who you know is that one for you, and that you will be for them. That's good. Hold them near and dear to you. Remember that loyalty is the most precious thing that you will ever give them.

"Most of all, learn well from your friends. They not only teach you of the world in their own ways, they will come to reflect you. You can see the most about yourself in the eyes of a friend. Similarly, you will be their mirror into their souls. When two friends work together, there is no way for failure to be an option. You will be one another's building blocks for success, for a happy future, for a place that you find yourself comfortable in. Without friends that serve as unswervingly loyal comrades, and if you yourself do not act the same for another, you will not find a satisfying purpose in this world."

The silence had returned, and as Simon smiled again, he realized the expression was more forced than ever. He had hardly strayed from the script at this point, but the stray sentences of emotion that had seeped in were urging him to bite his tongue. But at this point, with the audience as attentive as they were, Simon figured that he may as well continue, full speed ahead, with the rest of his preparations.

"The friends I made in the shadows of this latest war are friends I will never forget. There were few opportunities for us to share laughter, as grim as it all was, but when we laughed, we could hardly bring ourselves to stop. When we were pressed back to back in a tight spot, I had no doubts in my mind that they would protect me with all their strength, and that I would give all of my strength for their sake. When they spoke of home and of dreams, I shared their zeal, I gave myself to their cause. There was no restraint in such a true friendship. To make it through your life, you must value friendship, more so than anything else. Without friendship, you will be swallowed by your dreams, by your ambitions, or by the darkness inside yourself

"Trust me, all the medals in the world would not make up the worth of one true friend. Glory in combat is nothing when compared to the value of being there for someone. And dying for a country, dying for a cause, is not as noble as it is to be willing to give the same for a kindred spirit. They let me speak here today so I could tell you of those things, as a soldier would. They would just as much want me to tell you that these arms are strength, that this face is an image of courage. That's not what I am, nor something I will ever be. What I have been, most proudly, is a true friend to men, through thick and thin, in combat, and in peacetime. Strength is to be there for a friend, help them stand when they cannot stand themselves. Courage is standing with a friend for their cause. True honor comes in being a friend."

And that was where he stopped, a few full minutes short of where he had planned to be. The words had simply poured out so fast, the raw truth ripping itself from the planned script, and going straight for the heart of the issue. Simon was grateful for the subject matter of the morning, as it didn't strike as close to home as it could have. As opposed to talking of the war, of the atrocities of being abandoned by a country that had once depended on him, of the bloodlust that he still had in his bones, he was able to talk about a value that not one soul was a stranger to. Hopefully, as he had done so, he was able to at least convince a few of those children that there was more to life that bloodied honor to be worn as a false badge.

Although his tongue ached to say something more after such a brief monologue, Simon knew that there was no more to be said on the subject matter. He merely nodded, and turned away from the podium, retreating to his seat. It seemed that the children realized that there was no more to say, and the clapping started, slowly at first, but gradually rising into a thunder. It was a wave that lasted longer than the speech itself, and included a few whistles from a few excited groups. The principal rose to her feet, and began to dismiss the students, even over the clamor.

Simon retreated to the wings of the stage once more, even before all of the children had left. And only then, once he was back in the comfort of the darkness and solitude, did he feel like he could breathe freely once again. However, the solitude was blindingly temporary. The boy that had guided him to this place was back, a beaming smile on his face.

"That was wonderful!" the student praised, his eyes alight with fire. "I didn't expect that such a short talk could have such an effect on those students. They obviously enjoyed it very much! It was an absolute honor to have the pleasure to hear you speak today, sir. Now, if you don't mind, I can show you to the library where we have a small art exhibit set up, along with refreshments."

Of course, Simon didn't have the chance to give a positive reply before the boy was walking away, back towards the hallway that he had come in from. Simon sighed, rolling his eyes, trying still to recover from the talk that he had just given as he moved to catch up with the boy.

The library lay down an adjacent hall, and true to the word of his guide, a large table topped with sweets and fruit lay in the center of a library. Now, on a normal day, Simon suspected that the assorted literature would have been the only sight greeting his eyes. However, today, the waist-level bookshelves were topped with sculptures, matted photographs, and canvases decorated beautifully with paints of all shades. Had he been in less control of his expression, Simon would have gasped, shocked by this display of student artwork. Instead, he merely cocked his head, squinting at what had to be more than a hundred pieces of art.

"The students from the visual arts departments prepared pieces to show their understanding of your sacrifices, and to thank you for your service" the boy explained, and all Simon could do was stare as he made his way to the table with the refreshments. The colors of the flag stained everything, and the flag itself surfaced more than enough. There were paintings of crying men, of bleeding hearts, photographs of a sunrise over a neighborhood, sculptures of mountains and boots and so many other things.

Simon swallowed, trying to ignore the blatant misunderstanding that the students displayed through these art pieces, however beautiful they may have been. Even the images meant to show pain and tragedy, well, there were no words or images for the feelings of war. They also failed to display anything but sadness- while civilians may have been weeping, the masters of war were laughing, the soldiers were screaming, the ones that loved the fight were smiling with nothing but happiness. There was more than just pain- there was anger, there was love, there was laughter and happiness in the sickest, most cruel ways.

Then, there were feelings that exceeded simple emotions. The desire for victory, the burning need to emerge as victor, and liquid fear, were all things that could not be expressed by mere words. The thrill that one got when seeing an enemy's head burst into a spray of pink mist, the knowledge that life and death rested in one's hands, that was nothing but an experience, something that could not be made into artwork, no matter how rich the medium, no matter how sincere the artist's desire. But Simon could not comment, remembering that these were only children, children of that war. They had grown up in sorrow and fear, so what else would they express as an image of war?

Without so much as another word, Simon sat down at the table, thanking the boy, pretending to continue admiring the artwork that surrounded him. A few teachers walked in a few moments later, shook his hands, and the formalities were repeated, along with fervent thanks for his service. Simon just smiled, accepted the barrage of interaction begrudgingly, and sat down once more.

As he ate a few pieces of fruit and cake out of courtesy to those that had prepared it, he listened to the teachers (who he had discovered to be the art teachers) discuss the work of the students on display, and proceed to show him their personal favorites. It all moved in a blur to Simon, the words, the thanks, it was all the same. The feelings inside his head were also covered in the same grey, the same regret that he had consented to something like this, and the reflection on the speech that he had just given.

The teachers left soon enough, and Simon thanked them, praising the artwork of their talented students. They seemed absolutely thrilled by his praise, and promised to let their students know that he had given them such high remarks. Smiling again (which he had forced far too many times today) Simon whished them well, and retreated to a seat at the table of food, grabbing another cookie and sticking it in his mouth without another thought, except of utter exhaustion.

"I assume that all is going well, sir" a voice cut in through the silence, snapping Simon from the moment of serenity that he had fallen into. Of course, it was none other than his chipper tour guide, standing there eagerly, as though awaiting instruction. Simon nodded, keeping the smile on his face, although it was beginning to strain his cheeks.

"Yes, everything has been going wonderfully. Thank you for showing me around today, it's been a big help, and thank you for the food. It was a wonderful surprise."

The boy beamed at Simon's flat words, which made him wince on the inside. He regretted his own lack of sincerity, especially considering just how overwhelmed everyone was to have him visiting. Looking at his watch, the boy started speaking again, just as enthusiastic as ever.

"Now, we just have one last thing planned for you this morning, sir. The Modern World History class would love to ask you a few questions before you go, for the was hasn't been written into textbooks yet, and may not for quite a while. They would love to hear an account from a primary source regarding the war. Of course, it's no problem at all if you can't do that, or don't want to. But the class really would appreciate if you could give your time like that" he pleaded, and Simon knew that his will was crumpled.

 _Dammit_ he cursed silently, giving the boy a curt nod. Of course, this caused his smile to grow again, a brilliant, beaming smile. "That's fantastic!" the boy exclaimed, practically squirming where he stood. "As soon as you're done, I'll show you to the classroom." Simon nodded again, finishing the rest of the cookie in a single bite, then standing again. Internally, he groaned, and it was as though his conscious was holding him back every step of the way as he followed the boy. Why he had given a positive affirmation to this request was beyond his better judgement, but just as he had realized earlier, he had once more resigned himself to a most unpleasant fate.

The classroom wasn't terribly far away, and Simon made sure that he thanked his guide before stepping in through the door. He was greeted with a round of gasps, and a beaming teacher that nearly burst at the sight of him.

"Welcome, welcome!" she greeted, rushing towards him and shaking his hand. Simon smiled and forced a nod, staring at the wide eyes that were looking him over. It seemed that it was a class of about thirty students, and not a single one seemed less than thrilled at his presence. Awkwardly, Simon felt his ears burn red at this attention that was so visible, and tried to show the teacher that he was relying on her for instruction. Thankfully, she must have understood the look in his eyes, for she introduced him fluidly, without pause.

"Welcome to our class today, Mr. Riley. We're Churchill High's Modern World History class, and we thought that it would be fantastic for you to speak to the class today regarding your personal experiences. If there's nothing in particular you have to tell us, I'm sure that the whole class would love to ask questions" she invited, which was followed by a few of the kids nodding. Simon took a deep breath, faced the class, and started off hesitantly.

"Hello, good morning everyone. I'm sure you already heard me speak at the assembly this morning, so I figure you've taken of that what you will, and already formed your opinions on me. I guess I'll elaborate a bit more on myself and who I am for this class. Like I said, ex special forces. I actually got out before the war was over because of combat injuries, and the fact they had plenty of other capable guys to take my spot once I was down for the count. I was involved in several crucial operations that led to the success on our part, and helped bring the war to a close. Now I work in my local pizza parlor in the afternoons, and a department store in the day. I'm not the kind of man that they want stuck at a desk somewhere, calling the shots, and I'm not too terribly smart. I figured I could handle my own in civilian life, and I've done just fine, if I do say so myself." He paused there, hoping that too much bitterness hadn't seeped into his biography. He was bitter, and would be for the rest of his life, but there was no reason that he had to show that resentment for the system to these boys and girls. However, now that he had started, and with the knowledge of why he was here speaking, the words came a bit more easily.

"So, I heard I'm here to talk to you today, because the textbooks don't have it all in order yet. I might as well let you know that whatever you'll read in those books is a big, stinking pile. History is written by victors, and it is written to show glamor. They won't tell you about the failures that we made, for the failures of the victor cease to matter. In just the same way, they won't show the victories of the enemy as victories; they will show it as a large atrocity to our cause. I hope that you all know something of bias, and look at it carefully on the days that this war does become history, more than just wounds we're still trying to close.

"That's all I'll say on the subject, however. It seems that you're quite eager to ask me questions, and considering I don't have any special story prepared, we can do that instead of me talking for an hour. So, I'll take any questions you might have about me, the war, or what I did in the war." Silence, however uncomfortable, spanned once more. Simon tried his best not to show his discomfort at the situation. Children and young adults had never put him at ease, and remembering that time in his own life only led to bitterness. So he gave these kids a chance, noting the obvious hesitation.

But just a few moments later, past the shuffling of papers and rustling of fabric, a hand crept into the air. It was hesitant, obviously slow, and Simon scanned over the person it belonged to. The subject was a young boy, probably on the younger side of the class, with shaggy hair that fell over his face. He seemed somewhat shy, but the fact that he was first to volunteer his question showed enough bravery for Simon to give a small but genuine smile. He nodded to the boy, indicating he was ready for the question. After a gentle cough, the boy piped up, his voice shaky and hesitant.

"If you don't mind me asking, what injuries did you sustain that were severe enough to warrant a discharge?" It was gently voiced, and the tone was clearly showing caution with where he tread. Although Simon recognized this as a rather personal question, he had no problem in answering it. His injuries didn't warrant secrecy, although their cause was not something that he was going to readily discuss. Shrugging simply, Simon answered as clearly as he could.

"Usual combat injuries. Two gunshot wounds, one went through my shoulder, the other through my gut. Additionally, about seventy percent of my body sustained severe burns, most of them second or third degree. That's why my face is like it is" he added, tilting his chin up to give a view of some of the worst burn scars covering his neck.

That was yet another subject that Simon should have felt strongly about, but couldn't bring himself to. Ever since he was a young soldier, he had sustained scars, some of them marring his face, others his body. When he was faced with the realization that he was alive, but nearly burned to a crisp, the scars were the least of his concern. And now, with a weathered face covered in scars from knives and flames, and a body that looked much the same, Simon had no other option but to live with it. Small children shied away, adults looked at him with pity. Simon was indifferent, as he saw them in the mirror every day, and would for the rest of his life. Scar cream and careful surgery had only gone so far- he was resigned to his body now.

Much to the credit of the children in front of him, he received no reactions stronger than an emotional gasp, and even then, Simon suspected that was the teacher. The boy that had asked the question nodded, seemingly content with the answer. Before Simon could even volunteer himself for additional questions, two more hands were raised. Surprised by the enthusiasm, Simon could only point at the nearest hand, and prepare himself for the next question.

"What kind of machinery can you operate? Are you a pilot also?" And Simon began to answer, genuinely beginning to relax, even though he felt like he was some kind of glorified figure. The questions largely stayed from the personal, and from the intimacy of the battlefield, for the next fifteen minutes. They wanted to know about the weapons he used, about the machines he manned, about what schooling he had received, so many simple and routine questions. It gave him no stress to answer them, for they stayed in the realm of both personal and comfortable. But just as it seemed their curiosity was beginning to wind down, a boy in the back of the class raised his hand, eyes afire with some burning question. Simon saw that, and as his instincts had served him so well in the past, they served him now. Something churned in his gut, an ill feeling at the way this boy was acting. But he was there as a guest, and accepted the boy's question without visible hesitation. The voice was quiet, but the next question cut just as well as a knife.

"So, like, how many people have you killed? What's it like to kill someone, I mean, did you like it? You're a soldier, you have to like killing a little, isn't that right?" Simon paused, his whole body rigid. It seemed as though the whole class had gasped, appalled that one of their own could ask something so callous. The teacher yelled out a name, obviously the one of the offender, coupled with threats of a detention, or worse. But Simon had squinted his eyes, staring at the class, all of whom were still siting just as shocked as he felt. However, he had the gift of remaining calm under pressure, under stress, and in extreme discomfort. Now was no exception. He had been asked this before, and heard stories of other veterans being asked just the same, a question considered classically taboo. Simon couldn't bring himself to take offense; after all, it had just been a kid.

That's all they were; kids who didn't quite understand death yet. Death had been something far too abundant in their short lives, with numbers scrawled across every news station without stop as the war thundered on. To them, death was just a number, just an idea. Some of them had likely lost a relative at some point, perhaps even to the war itself. They thought of death as coming and going, not as an act. As Simon reflected, these children thought of dying as the action. They didn't think of the killing. They didn't think of the action required to bring someone to that final state, what the backbone of war really was. Killing was just that- the lifeblood of war and tragedy.

"No, I'll answer him" Simon interrupted the scolding, trying to show that his composure hadn't faltered, that his state hadn't changed just because of an insensitive question. "Every soldier must come to terms with that sooner or later. I know that none of you know what it's like, so the words I have may not mean much. I can answer each of those questions without much thought, because I've given them all plenty of thought. So you, young man in the back, I will answer.

"I was never a man to count my kills. It was no badge of honor or courage to me. Being a murderer should never be seen as a favorable task, no matter the cause it is for. They were people, not numbers, even as I did my duty. I do not know the number, nor even an estimate of the people I killed. That's an easy one.

"As for liking it, no, I did not like it either. To be honest, I was indifferent. It was my job. As it's the job of the man at the supermarket to stock the shelves, my job was to take lives. Although it may have caused some introspection at the beginning of my duties, when I was fresh out of high school, as I grew, it became less of a concern. I had a greater good to worry about, not my own feelings, or the individuals that I interacted with. So no, I never liked it, and I never would. It was a job, and a duty. What I believe that none of you understand is giving yourself body and mind for a cause. That's why I did what I did. Not for the pleasure, not for the reward, but for the belief" he finished, trying to make his words sound sincere.

 _But I'm lying_ he thought to himself, mortified as he held his visage for the sake of those looking up at him. _I loved the blood. I loved the thrill of controlling life and death. I was a hound that enjoyed his duties, even though he knew what was truly occurring. I'm a fucking monster_ he growled inside his head. He hoped that none of his true emotions were being portrayed in any way, perhaps through a menacing glimmer in his eyes. But now the students were silent- there wasn't rustling paper, there wasn't any sort of whispering. Just wide, white eyes that couldn't believe what he had said.

The teacher cleared her throat, but Simon wasn't done. He knew when he looked at the boy in the back, the disappointment at such a bland, disconcerting answer, that he wasn't done. He had come here today to possibly make a difference, and if anything, perhaps he could steer this one boy straight. He stepped forward, angry now, angry that such a young soul could have such a hunger for bloodshed. This was one of the future war mongers, the killer himself, the evil hand that loved to see pawns rolling in piles of bodies. And today was the day that Simon was going to put an end to it. Sternly as he could, trying to mimic the voice of previous commanders, Simon set his words out in the open with a concrete firmness.

"Do not think that there is glory in death. The only thing worse than thinking that bravery is dying, is loving death itself. There is nothing in death, or close to death in any way, that should cause you to be happy or joyous. Death is a truly terrible thing, and the love for it is what starts wars. You cannot have peace if there are men that think that destroying other men is an appropriate sport. I should not be something that any of you aspire to be, my task should be in none of your dreams. I may be a soldier, but that means nothing more than calling me a sanctioned killer. I took lives, that was my one and only job. I did it. And it had consequences. The world felt those consequences, millions of people in just as many families felt it. Do not look death in the eyes and fall in love. Do not be the cause for another generation of fear and chaos. And do not, do not become so consumed with death that you forget how to live."

These children, they stared at him with horror in their eyes for the first time. Maybe it was because he had let that anger seep into his voice, the gentle tone he had been using becoming infused with a growl from his gut. Maybe it was because his eyes had been burning with the thought that already, these children had fallen in love with the idea that bloodshed was a solution. Whatever he had done, maybe now, these children were beginning to understand that war was more than honor and medals and heroes. A hundred veterans could visit, tell a hundred copies of the same story, and it wouldn't be enough to understand just how terrible war was, just how unsavory killing was.

"I think I've taught the most I can teach today" he choked out, pulling his voice back completely level, giving a polite nod to the teacher. "I hope that my words were beneficial to your students. I would be happy to come back if you would want me again" he forced the words, giving the cordial but blatant lie with yet another forced smile. Even now, Simon was able to contain the fact that his blood was boiling. He was a hard-ass soldier, his emotions never showed, and he was so far from weak it was terrifying. And now, without another word, he walked out of that classroom and never looked back.

He didn't stop walking. He got into his car, he started the engine, and pulled out of the parking lot. The visitors badge was still pasted to his leg, and he yanked it off, crumping it and casting it to the floor. Today, he had gone out of his comfort zone, and tried to speak elegantly where there was no elegance. Children, who knew only that warfare was full of terror, were taught that it was less than those words like glory and honor.

Simon, on the other hand, was taught that there would always be men that loved blood, that made friends with the reaper. Even mere children, and there was no way to escape that. But as he drove off towards home, he remembered his own relationship with death, and just how many men he had sent to their graves. He felt the itching in his bones to strike up that relationship once more, and carry on as a good soldier should. But instead he was chained to a live of monotony, a life of pain, and a life where he would always resent what he had become. He was a weapon, a sharpened blade, growing dull from unused, and he would never again find a place where he belonged, until he was beside death once more.

 **Thank you so much for reading! Feel free to drop a review or PM to let me know what you thought of it! Also, feel free to suggest something for me to write in the future. Thanks again :)**


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